


Inheritance

by elf_owl



Category: Original Work
Genre: Character Study, Flash Fic, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:41:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27274363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elf_owl/pseuds/elf_owl
Summary: The day I turned eight, my father gave me my inheritance.





	Inheritance

**Author's Note:**

> The first thing my brain has let me write in six months...I have no idea what this is...Sorry...

The day I turned eight, I stood in our living room and watched my father kill my brother.

And then he killed my sisters.

And my uncle.

And my mother.

And my grandfather.

Then, as we could hear the sirens starting in the distance, he produced a second gun.

He stepped around my uncle’s body, stepped over my mother’s, and stopped in front of where I stood, blood-soaked and shock-silent. He took my small, bloody hand in his large, bloody hand, and wrapped my fingers around the second gun.

He said I could either kill him, or he would shoot me in the stomach and make me watch him butcher my family’s bodies as I slowly bled to death.

I was eight and I cried when my brother killed a spider in front of me.

I told him to go to hell.

He shot me.

Purposefully just grazed my leg.

I fell. My eldest sister’s blood was hot on my ice-numb skin.

The sirens were getting closer.

He grabbed me. Dragged me to my feet.

Said if I wanted him to go to hell, I'd have to send him there myself.

He shoved the gun I’d dropped back into my hand, forced my finger on the trigger, put the muzzle to his own throat. Forced me to meet his wild eyes. Told me to pull the damn trigger.

I asked why. Why he didn’t just kill me too.

He said because of all his worthless family, I had the most potential.

He said he was eight when he made his first kill. A feral dog. He’d had to wait until he was fifteen before he got to kill his first human.

He said he wanted the son to have it better than the father.

He said if he were to leave any sort of legacy, it would be a killer that even he couldn’t match.

The sirens were three streets away.

He let me go. Took a step back. Stopped when his heel met my mother’s side. Pointed his gun at me.

He said he wouldn’t miss this time.

The sirens turned onto our street.

And I pulled the trigger.

The bullet tore through his stomach, ripped apart his organs.

His blood poured out to join my mother's in soaking the rust-stained carpet.

His body fell on hers, dead flesh cushioning the landing of soon to be dead flesh.

The sirens screeched to a halt outside our building.

The day I turned eight, I stood in our living room and watched my father bleed out on the floor.

Slowly.

He had never looked so proud.


End file.
